


A Collection Of Your Sighs

by vesuviannights



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, First Time, In the midst of canon, M/M, Other, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 22:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20090140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesuviannights/pseuds/vesuviannights
Summary: In the midst of Julian's chaotic route, you find a moment to strip yourselves bare and give him every moan, plea and sigh that your body holds dear.





	A Collection Of Your Sighs

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a request on my Tumblr (@vesuviannights). Anonymous wanted Julian and MC's first time, somewhere in the middle of the route, with an MC who likes to bite and scratch, especially when they come. I chose to write it for a gender neutral MC, but still from second person POV.

Before she leaves on errands of her own, Mazelinka sends the two of you out for groceries—bread, clove, some other vegetables you can’t remember or pronounce but which Julian seems familiar enough with.

As you enter the marketplace you split in the crowd to avoid being noticed together, but you are always keeping an eye on him. Before you separate—before he pulls his hand out of yours, and murmurs an apology he can’t manage to look at you while giving—you breathe a quiet spell to keep track of him, and follow the tug of the tether that now exists between the two of you as he weaves in the opposite direction.

It’s nearly sunset when you find each other again just by Selasi’s stand, already packed down for the day. You try to take his hand again, partly to make sure you don’t lose each other but also because you are nothing else if not stubborn, but he just shakes his head and takes care to walk a little further ahead of you as you weave your way back so that you can’t try again.

When you are back inside, he takes the bags from your hands and places them down on the table, beginning to unpack with an unreadable crease to his brow. It is not the frown he makes whenever he is trying to solve a problem, but it is also not the one he makes when he is trying to figure out the exact words to keep you at arms-length and (in his eyes) safe. Somehow, you are not comforted by the absence of either frown.

As he is pouring the satchel of crushed clove into one of Mazelinka’s empty jars, you step up to him and place your hand over his. He stops almost immediately, and you do not miss the slight shake of his hand that seems to slip further into his body the more time that passes.

“You should rest,” he tells you. “We have a long day ahead tomorrow.”

“I will rest when I am dead,” you return, and if he is offended by the playful tone to your voice, then he doesn’t show it.

“Rest is important. How else will you be well and happy enough to help me the way you keep insisting on doing?”

“Well, I could think of a few different ways.”

You wait for the blush. The stuttering. Maybe even a scolding look that tells you that your words are too far and he’s tired of telling you how bad he is for those around him.

But none of those things happen.

Instead, he places down the satchel and turns to you, holding your one hand in the two of his. He stares down at it, tracing the lines of your knuckles, that same unreadable frown on his features. His jaw is a little tighter now, the shadows under his eyes a little more pronounced.

He exhales, and it is a shaking breath that moves through his whole body as he lifts your hand to his lips. He kisses your fingertips, first your index, then your middle, and then finally all. In his action, you’ve been pulled close enough to see the way his chest is fluttering from his shaking breaths and racing heartbeat.

“Julian,” you whisper. “Please.”

You stare down at where your fingertips are resting against his parted lips, held there by his hand and the small circles his thumb is drawing against your wrist. His other hand smooths over the small of your back, pulling you in by your waist so that so much more of you is touching—perhaps more than he was aware of, or that he has ever allowed before.

“You should most definitely stop us,” he murmurs to you, his words slow and a little distant, as though he rethinks each one before saying it.

“No,” you answer. “I don’t think I will.”

Your lips touch, slow and sure, tasting not for the first time but seemingly with a new weight to them. You sigh into the kiss as his hand buries itself in your hair, cupping the back of your head as he moans into your mouth.

You swallow the sound greedily, and the moment you do things seem to blur, movements become a little quicker. The kiss becomes fast, heated, impatient as he presses your hips a little closer together, grinding into you, groaning your name.

You spin, tripping over your own feet a little in the process, and he catches you against the wall. His laugh shakes both your bodies as he presses his face into your neck, and maybe he’s just a little delirious from the lack of sleep and the insanity of your past few days together, or perhaps it’s all just from the taste of you, you don’t know. But you do know that you are in the same way, and that you meant your words—you won’t stop this, and you won’t let him try.

You both undress in a flurry of clothes, shirts and belts and boots kicked off and forgotten somewhere near the foot of the bed. He struggles to get his trousers off his long, uncoordinated limbs fast enough, and curses under his breath as he almost careens right through Mazelinka’s wall when he trips.

Now, it’s your turn to laugh. He swivels around to face you, at first wide-eyed and surprised as he takes in the sight of you—dishevelled hair, leaning back on your elbows, eyes twinkling—then throws you an uneven grin before falling down, naked and ready, onto the bed with you and pulling you into him.

He is beneath you, one hand cupping your knee and dragging it up the length of his body so there’s more of you for him to press up into, more of you touching him in every place that feels good. He groans, says something in a language you don’t know but you think might not even just be one, he’s so lost in the feel of you. You know you hear your name, and inflections on certain words say that maybe he’s also cursing, that damn pirate’s tongue.

He rolls you onto your back, the length of his body eclipsing yours almost completely. His cock falls hard and hot between you, and he moans softly as he thrusts it against your thigh, the friction making him tremble.

“Please, Julian—” You beg from between your teeth, so you can at least pretend you aren’t demanding it of him. “Please, if we never get another chance—”

He nods, like he knows that your words might be true, and like he knows that you’re both too lost in desire to think rationally and realise that there will probably be many chances, or that having no chances is the safest route for you, at least in his eyes.

He kisses you again, swallowing your whimpers as he reaches down between your legs to where you are already trembling, hot, ready for him. Your thighs part a little more at his touch, and he sinks a little further into the space between you, until the hard length of his cock is resting right where you want him.

Your hips push up toward him, the heat of him running along you as you throw your head back. Your nails are sinking into his shoulder blades as you beg for him to fuck you, but you’re only halfway through your words as he gasps and nods and promises you _yes, he will, he will._

He sits the two of you up so that you’re straddling his lap, keeping you locked to him with his hands at your waist as you grind against him. His cheeks are flush with his arousal, the tips of his ears pink as he eyes the way your lip catches between your teeth, the way you writhe in his lap as you wait impatiently for him to do as he promised.

And when he does, oh, the feeling is so exquisite. Your nails sink a little further into his shoulders as the head of his cock presses into you, sinking in inch by slow inch as both of you shake from the knowledge that it will never be fast enough, that you might never be close enough.

When he’s fully seated inside of you, face pressed into your neck, he wastes no time in beginning to move. His thrusts up into you are long, deep, and pull aching moan after aching moan from you as you drag your nails down the skin of his shoulders and arms, trying to find more leverage to pull him deeper into you.

He curses—this one is definitely a curse—and the word is strangled, a little high pitched, the pain seeming to fuel him on even more.

“Oh love, that feels so good, so good—”

With a grin, you sink your teeth into his shoulder again and he keens, his hands scrambling at your waist to pull you closer. Your foreheads meet, and he’s fucking you like he could never tell you how much your touch means to him, or how even though his feelings for you are eternally lodged in his throat and ready to spill out at any given moment, he hates the part of himself that might never be happy that he gave in to you and to himself instead of staying away from you like he said he would.

When you start to shake above him, when your teeth are scraping against his jugular, when your nails have left a patchwork of lines across his back and shoulders and chest, he reaches down to find you, his deft hands coaxing you toward your already building climax.

“Will you come for me, my love? Will you scream for me?” He asks. You, eyes closed, lips parted, breathing uneven, nod, because it’s all you can do. “Let me hear every beautiful noise you can make so I can commit every single one to memory. I need them so much, please—”

As you crash, his cock still fucking you even as you squeeze and shudder around it, you sink your teeth into his shoulder, barely aware that you might be tasting blood. He cries out, a match to the whimpers and cries as you come. He joins you a moment later, the warmth of his seed filling you, marking you, leaving you lightheaded, dizzy, sated.

As the world slowly starts to come back to you, he won’t pull out of you, not even when you both have a little of your breath back, not even when he kisses your cheek and rolls you both onto your side to pull you into his chest.

As he traces the line of your spine with shaking fingertips, his cheek resting on top of your head, you think you feel him smile. You try to find the energy to tilt back and see it—see if it’s a true smile, if it’s without that internal, eternal struggle he seems to have about giving people pieces of himself as though it would put them at risk—but you are too sated, too warm, too comfortable in his arms.

Just before you drift off, his last words come to you in a quiet murmur, confirming that maybe that smile you couldn’t lift your head to see wasn’t quite so tormented after all.

“I’m quite glad you refused to stop us.”

“So am I,” you answer, and then you fall asleep.


End file.
